


Tempest

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Ya'aburnee Timestamps [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Calm Before The Storm, Dogs, Domesticity, Established Relationship, M/M, Snuggling, Storms, ya'aburnee verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I would suggest we move the bed back from the window, save it even a little from the downpour that is inevitable through the plastic. The sooner we do that and secure the last of it, the sooner we can get your dogs into the car with us to go.” Hannibal pauses, long enough to swallow, press his nose to Will’s temple gently before stepping away. “So I suggest we hurry.”</i>
</p><p>A storm comes to Wolf Trap... and Will and the dogs join Hannibal in Baltimore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarpedChyld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/gifts).



> For the darling [warpedchyld](http://warpedchyld.tumblr.com/), who requested more of her [YB](http://archiveofourown.org/series/103067) boys in the calm before the storm, namely, the weeks between [Murder and Mercy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1675898) and [Ya'aburnee](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1759593). Follows on from [Belgard](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2828576) but you do not have to have read that one to be able to make sense of this. We hope you like it bb <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’d kiss you for this, if there weren’t - you know - three dogs on me. If there weren’t rain. If you weren’t driving,” he says, a smile caught at the edge of his voice as Hannibal keeps his palm to the man’s scruffy cheek, the other on the wheel._
> 
> _“Perhaps when those qualifiers no longer apply.”_

“It’s going to rain.”

Hannibal draws a hand across his eyes, aware of Will’s absence beside him before the man even spoke. He turns to his back, to watch Will outlined against the door. “So you’ve said.”

About a dozen times throughout the day, Will’s said it, but whatever magic he hoped to conjure by predicting it didn’t stop the swell of clouds that’s turned the sky matte black, starless, moonless. Empty. He twines a finger against the curtain hem as a vein of lightning cuts above the trees, doubled-over, shuddering in the agony of wind. He lets the drape fall back with a frown. The dogs whine as he passes, as sleepless as their pack leader, and Will shakes his head at the thick plastic tarp in place across the window.

“This isn’t going to stay.”

“There are several days yet until the glass arrives,” Hannibal reminds him, rubbing his eyes before just letting his hand drop back above his head and watching the ceiling. “Perhaps we can secure it against a leak, the wind may batter it, but for the night, or two, that it does it should hold.”

“It won’t be good for them,” Will sighs, sitting on the bed and watching the animals in the front part of the house, shift and fuss and fret with quiet whines and the occasional yelp. “It will be cold and _loud_ , Hannibal, the noise will upset them.”

The doctor draws up a knee and swallows before parting his lips, thoughtful. He knows the man beside him will not rest or stay still until this is solved. He knows, too, that there is little that can solve it beyond barricading the entire window, and they have no time for that.

“We can set two more planks across it,” Hannibal suggests, pushing himself up on one elbow and turning on his side to watch Will where he sits. “Enough to contain most of the damage. Come good weather, the window will be here to replace it,”

“But -”

“In the meantime,” Hannibal patiently continues, watching Will’s shoulders tense and relax again on a sigh. “We can spend the nights in Baltimore.”

“No.”

Hannibal lifts a brow, but remains quiet as Will stands again to pace to the window. He passes a hand over Winston’s head on the way by, and ducks to pick up Buster who half-jumps to meet his embrace. Gentle fingers stroke behind velvety ears before Will pushes aside the curtain again, little dog tucked in his other arm.

“Will -”

“I said no,” comes the flat response, tension curling Will’s shoulders forward, displeasure plucked tight in every cord of tendon, from legs to larynx. “I - I appreciate the offer, Hannibal, I do, and you’re free to go if you’d rather not get goddamn rained on - I don’t blame you,” he adds, without looking away from the rain that’s already tapping, then all at once hammering against the porch. “But you should go now. It’s only going to get worse from here.”

Hannibal pushes himself to sit up. It is late at night, not yet morning, but the rain makes it seem a far more treacherous evening, a far crueler place to leave to, than to stay in this little house in the middle of nothing and nowhere. He regards Will a moment longer, the way he watches the rain, sets his hips for balance as he soothes the dog in his arms, and Hannibal knows he listens out for the others in case of distress there as well.

“It will get worse,” Hannibal agrees, finally standing, moving to stand behind Will but not yet touch him. “The wind will hit hardest later this evening or early morning, the roads may be inaccessible.”

A hum, when Will makes no reply, and Hannibal sighs, a deep breath in of the sleepy, exhausted man before him, a sigh out to cool against his neck.

“I would suggest we move the bed back from the window, save it even a little from the downpour that is inevitable through the plastic. The sooner we do that and secure the last of it, the sooner we can get your dogs into the car with us to go.” Hannibal pauses, long enough to swallow, press his nose to Will’s temple gently before stepping away. “So I suggest we hurry.”

Will glances over his shoulder. He snorts, but there’s no conviction in it - just an unrelenting stubbornness, a ceaseless need to be reassured of the things that Hannibal says. He knows. He can't not know. And still -

“You should go.”

“I will, with you and the others, as soon as we’ve moved the bed.”

Will turns to watch, as Hannibal seeks out his pants in the darkness, and switches on the light beside the bed. The dogs unfurl one by one, as if more willing to believe what Hannibal has said than Will himself. Slowly, the younger man steps closer, bare feet clicking against the squeaky wooden floors.

“You’re not going to put seven dogs - wet, by that point - seven _wet_ damn dogs in your Bentley. In your house? They’ll chew the taxidermy.”

“I am also not going to leave you,” Hannibal replies, careful with his shirt, eyes down to watch the buttons as he works them closed, one by one. “Or the dogs in this house in a storm, with the high chance of you losing power and heat, and having no contact when the roads are closed off.”

He smiles, enough for it to reach his eyes, and does not bother knotting his tie. “I am sure I will find something to present on my mantle, should one of your dogs take a fancy to what lives there now.”

“Hannibal.”

The doctor looks up at his name, brows lifting just so.

“You can’t taxidermy the dogs.”

“I would not,” he responds. “I would leave it to someone of far more skill.”

Will draws a breath but before he can insist on how entirely _unfunny_ he is, Hannibal catches him gently by the arm, and sets his other hand beneath his chin. Though, always, Will looks just past, it’s near enough to eye contact that Will can see the wrinkles of amusement there, and he settles.

“Come and help me.”

“I don’t think -”

“Will.”

“I don’t think you realize what you’re saying, we have to bring food for them, bowls - you know, I don’t know. Beds. They’ll be in your bed, probably. Who knows where the hell they’ll go with all that - all that space, and -”

“ _Will_.”

The sigh is enough to quiet Will, and he nods. Just nods. He just nods and sets Buster down on the bed, watching as he immediately hops down to bark at the storm, nevermind the stitches still visible along his side. Hannibal turns to go, but finds himself held, fast, by Will’s hand against his own. Soft lips draw against his palm, Will’s bright eyes hidden beneath long lashes, and he murmurs a muffled word of thanks.

It’s enough.

The bed is moved quickly, suffice for it to be against the opposite wall, for the time being, the floor covered in plastic as well to catch whatever it can of the rain. The rest is a quick set of instructions to help gather everything as the wind outside howls louder and the dogs grow more restless.

Blankets for them to sleep on, all the bowls, the food Will is eventually convinced to forgo, with promise of fresh food made for them in Baltimore. Toys to keep them occupied in whatever room they leave them in. What else, what _else_...

It is the two of them, in the end, who get drenched, carrying the dogs to save the mud being tracked into the car along with the wet fur and drool. Back and forth until the back of the Bentley is filled with canines, the three smallest in Will’s lap in the front seat as they finally all settle in and Hannibal reverses through the mud carefully to get back to the road.

The drive is uneventful, and Will can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the quiet opera music, the humming of the car beneath them, and the panting of the dogs in the back seat, the scrabbling and crawling of them over him in the front. It feels ridiculously domestic, ridiculously practiced. He watches Hannibal from the corner of his eye as the older man keeps his eyes on the road, hands against the wheel to keep them steady.

Will smiles, a little. Then he smiles a little more. Every attempt to maintain some semblance of maturity crumbles as soon as its set in place, relief unbound as it always is when Will can see Hannibal prove that he means what he says. He turns towards the back, greeted by a whine as the dogs continue their unsteady shifting to settle, and when Will tries to speak, his laugh breaks as sudden as the rain.

“I - I’m sorry - Hannibal, your seats -”

“Can be cleaned.”

“They’re - it isn’t funny, I -”

Hannibal doesn’t glance back, but turns a brief eye to Will, who snorts helpless in the seat beside him, choking down his laughter - barely. “I’ll pay for it, I - I don’t even know how much fixing them will cost, I’ll just send you my paycheck every month, okay?”

There is a bare movement of Hannibal’s lips, just a quirk, just a twist, but it’s there and it’s enough to brighten his eyes and narrow them further and Will is off again, laughing against the back of one of the squirming creatures in his arms.

In truth, it is rather ridiculous, something Hannibal had never thought he would do, and yet here they are - four dogs digging their way through the lambskin at the back, and three pressing messy prints against the dash and the passenger window and door. Hannibal wonders how it came to this, why he felt the need to bring them all, safe, to his home in such a storm, when he had had the option, the out, to say no and leave on his own.

He wonders but he does not linger.

Instead he reaches over to slide his fingers through Will’s hair to soothe his laughter. “Perhaps I will start actually charging you for your appointments to cover damages,” he suggests, and it brings another snort of laughter from the younger man beside him who turns so willingly and pliantly into his palm.

Will’s lips part, eyes hooded as he watches the man beside him, smile fading warmly to something deeper than, as the Bentley slicks smoothly down the road. He presses a hand over Hannibal’s, to keep it there. Without the delight and pressure of their gazes meeting, Will watches him openly, his mind working, always working, before he finally speaks, softly.

“I’d kiss you for this, if there weren’t - you know - three dogs on me. If there weren’t rain. If you weren’t driving,” he says, a smile caught at the edge of his voice as Hannibal keeps his palm to the man’s scruffy cheek, the other on the wheel.

“Perhaps when those qualifiers no longer apply.”

Will makes a small sound, agreeable enough, and brings his lips together almost absently against Hannibal’s palm. His fingers curl around his hand. “It’s not good to be distracted when you’re driving.”

The pluck of threat arches Hannibal’s brow, and draws up a smile beneath his eyes. “It is dangerous, in fact.”

“Very,” agrees Will. “Very dangerous business, telling drivers how grateful you are, and how you can’t wait to - you know.”

Hannibal draws a breath, just soft, and releases it over far longer than he took it in. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“No? Clever Doctor Lecter, stumped.”

“Perhaps you can explain to me, so that I might understand.”

Will’s smile widens and Hannibal curls his fingers against his jaw, threading through his beard. “I was only saying that, you know, it would be terribly - dangerously, as you said - _dangerously_ distracting to tell a driver -”

“- in a storm, surrounded by panting dogs whose breath fogs the windows -”

“Yes, that exactly,” Will continues, his voice low. “One certainly shouldn’t tell that driver how badly they want to feel him against their tongue, filling their mouth, their throat. How much one would gladly swallow.”

Hannibal hums, feigning indifference and ignorance both as his fingers work gently to stroke over Will’s jaw. He touches over the soft skin of his throat, up against his ear and just behind it. Will turns into the touch like a cat, and Hannibal brings his hand to his face again, gently drawing his thumb over Will’s lips until they part. Then he presses it in against the younger man’s tongue, and allows himself a smile as Will sucks against the digit, curls his tongue beneath it and rubs.

“It would be far from wise,” he agrees. He takes a turn slowly, one hand on the wheel only as he holds his posture and Will against his hand. “To tell a driver such things.”

Will, in response, sucks his thumb in a little deeper. Hannibal lets out a long breath as his eyes flick to the rear view mirror to regard the canines crawling over his back seat.

It should be ridiculous.

It is ridiculous.

He laughs, just once, a soft sound, and pulls his hand free to paint Will’s lips slick before sliding warm fingers over his throat, just to hold, not a threat. The spare room, he thinks, that’s where he will put the dogs. Small, easy to clean and almost empty, beyond the bed and carpet they will inevitably shed on.

“What else should you not tell him?” Hannibal asks quietly as they enter the city proper, almost devoid of cars at this hour, in this weather.

Will’s smile is winsome, almost distant, but his pulse betrays him. Hannibal feels it speed beneath his fingers - feels the heavy jerk of his adam’s apple as Will stretches his chin upward, to adjust.

“I shouldn’t say more. I don’t want to distract -”

“Are you?”

“Distracting?”

Hannibal hums, and Will mirrors the narrowing of his eyes. He parts his lips with his tongue.

“It would be - it’d be disastrous, really, potentially, to talk about all the ways one might express their gratitude, which is - as much - an apology…”

“For?”

“For being stubborn,” Will considers. But the moment passes, eyes dark not in grim introspection but with something else entirely, that catches Hannibal’s attention in its scent - slow-blooming arousal, despite the absurdity of circumstance.

“And how might one -”

“Express their gratitude?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes, checking across his shoulder as he turns, one-handed still, with the other settled against Will’s throat.

“With their mouth, proclaiming without words,” Will murmurs. “With their hands, speaking silent thanks. With their body, offered for use, so that the other need not trouble themselves with movement at all - _hell_.”

He jerks away from Hannibal’s hand with another curse, grimacing, to remove the dog that’s stepped onto his groin in nervous excitement. Two in the back bark, and Will turns to quiet them, unsettling the three somehow still held in his lap. He tries to wrap an arm around them, watching Buster decide the floor at Will’s feet is better, and it’s a flurry of limbs - some furred, some plaid, barking and clucks of tongue.

In short, a circus.

They are several streets away from Hannibal's home, and they are navigated quickly - albeit very carefully - as Will restrains Buster from reclining beneath the gas pedal, and holds the others against him with an unforgiving restraining arm.

The garage opens with a hum, and when it closes behind them, it seems almost eerily quiet after the pelting rain they had listened to throughout the drive. Buster is released with a sigh, and Hannibal finds himself at the mercy of small paws and a beating tail, doggish grin turned to him in curiosity before he sighs and drops a hand to pet him, resigned to the inevitable dry cleaning for his suits.

"Perhaps," Hannibal suggests, as the dogs grow restless in the now motionless vehicle. "The spare room downstairs. Spacious and close to the garden door for the morning."

"They need to make it through the rest of the house though," Will reminds him, and Hannibal swallows, works his lips together in an amused purse, before nodding.

"They do."

And with that, he reaches back to open the door for the largest dogs, opens his own for Buster and the small parade of little feet that migrate over Will and over Hannibal to get to the house.

The dogs investigate the garage with enthusiasm, nosing into corners, beneath the workbench always kept alarmingly clean. Even the floor of the garage is free of any oil spots or grease, and Will glances into the back seat as he circles the car, wincing at the crosshatching of scrapes along the plush leather.

“Should’ve put a blanket down or something,” he sighs, pushing a hand through his hair.

Hannibal only tilts his head in consideration, smoothing his jacket as he emerges. “Next time.”

Will, to his credit, still removes his shoes when he steps into the house, crouching enough to form a barricade from the wave of wagging tails and whines that accost him to enter. He takes his time, muddied boots set aside, and glances up to Hannibal behind him, standing among the swarm.

“Should we - one at a time? Or -”

“Better to treat it as a plaster,” intones Hannibal, gravely. “All at once.”

So with a sigh Will stands, grimacing already, and the dogs swarm in around him and separate all at once into the house. He starts to follow but before he can, Hannibal slips an arm around his waist to draw the younger man back against him.

“They’re going to get into everything,” warns Will.

"Inevitably," Hannibal hums against his hair, a breath to pull the smell of Will his way, excited and nervous and half-drenched and sleepy. He splays his fingers as Will’s hand seeks to grasp them and lets him, pulling Will tighter against him as one arm wraps comfortably across his chest, shoulder to shoulder.

Beyond them, the dogs slip through every part of the house they can reach, sniffing around the kitchen, nuzzling past the couches in the sitting room, some brave enough to set their paws to them, but not jump up. A whirlwind of fur and color, soft whines and happy yelps when all the dogs recognize and discover each other in passing. Everyone here. No one left behind.

"You need a thorough shower," Hannibal murmurs against Will’s ear. "To warm your skin from a possible chill."

"Is that all?"

Hannibal's hand slips down Will’s thigh to between his legs, splaying both their hands over his groin and pressing down until Will arches up against it.

"I must make sure you're comfortable," Hannibal states reasonably. "Before I feel your legs over my shoulders and take my time meticulously making you filthy again."

Will bites his bottom lip, releasing it with a little sound as he leans his head back to Hannibal’s shoulder and lets his eyes close. He rocks his hips, grinding slow against the weight of Hannibal’s hand and the friction of the jeans between them. A slight shift forward, and reaching back, Will slides his palm against Hannibal’s stomach down to the swelling bulge pushing against his trousers. It’s an awkward grip bent this way, but Will’s eyes open again, just a little, to watch the man who holds him rapt.

“Even after I was so rude?” Will asks, grinning shy and crooked. He tries to lean away but Hannibal’s hand tightens against his shoulder to hold him there, spanning fingers over the younger man’s throat again.

"It is a proven psychological technique that positive approaches yield much more successful results than negative," Hannibal calmly tells him, turning his head to kiss against Will’s forehead with a hum, steady to support them both but very happy with Will’s hand just where it is. "I will remind you of your rudeness, perhaps have you enact it to drive the lesson home."

Reluctantly, Hannibal lets the younger man go.

"Call them, we will set them up before ourselves. I would have you contented knowing your dogs are safe and well."

Will makes a low sound, vague displeasure, and grudgingly steps away, fingertips fanning over Hannibal’s cock as he walks away. He doesn’t whistle, but he clicks his tongue, and the dogs near enough to hear it come to him, tails sweeping along along the floor. Hannibal watches him lead them away, quick pats against his thigh, and all four follow eagerly to the spare bedroom.

He gathers the blankets from the car, the toys - with a frown, when some are still damp as he lifts them gingerly from the floor. A mournful look is spared for his once pristine seats, but leather can be replaced far more easily than Will’s still-wary trust might have been, had Hannibal returned home alone.

Will is talking, softly, in the distance - introducing the dogs to the room, the bed on which most will inevitably pile themselves. The sheets will need a thorough cleaning, to free them of hair, the carpets as well to clear away the smell of so many dogs, but Hannibal allows the thoughts to pass for now in favor of grasping, instead, the little flame of warmth in his chest. It is not unwelcome - as he might have expected it to be - to have so much company as this. His own home, but with the comfort of Wolf Trap brought to it.

Buster finds him first, clicking closer on little claws and stretching his paws up onto Hannibal’s leg.

“You’re going to pull your stitches,” sighs Will, padding on socked feet from the hallway. “Sorry. I got four of them.”

Hannibal bends to take up the little creature carefully, checking over the sutures before allowing Will to coax the other three along with them to the room they will share. Buster, he sets carefully to the bed first, an open invitation for the others,before spreading their blankets over the bed for them. Will adjusts them, from pristine folds to crumpled piles, so the dogs can nest amidst the warmth as they please.

Bowls of water are arranged in the ensuite for the dogs, carefully set so as not to be walked over and spilled.

Hannibal's home is insulated against the noise outside, enough heard to be clear just how heavily it rains, but no rattling or shuddering like the house in Wolf Trap moved. There is no danger of noises frustrating or frightening the dogs, here.

When they close the door to the creatures milling around the new space, Hannibal snares Will against him to kiss, deep and long, a fevered passion between them born of relief and proximity and privacy, all. Safe from the storm and nowhere to be but with each other.

"Upstairs," Hannibal sighs.

Will pulls back with a slight smile, head tilted upward. Slow steps carry him backwards towards the stairs, and licking his lip between his teeth, he ducks his gaze to start working his shirt’s buttons free. His heel finds the first step, and he takes it up, eyes bright when he lifts them again to watch Hannibal watching him, and two steps later, his shirt falls free.

He holds his gaze now, blush heating beneath his eyes when he sets his fingers to his pants. One step, and they slide from narrow hips, clothes abandoned where they lay. His undershirt falls after two more stairs. A sock for each that follows.

His boxers are tented by the time he’s three-quarters up the stairs, thumbs perched in the waistband and his grin irrepressibly broad.

Hannibal follows, three steps below, watching the show, the man before him trembling with both slight cold and arousal, and bends, obedient to his own inner demons, to gather every piece of dropped clothing as he steps near it.

“Always picking up after you,” he laments, amused when Will’s cheeks darken further, and he takes another step up, slipping the left side of his boxers down, another and the right, working them down as he nears the top of the stairs, and on the top step lets them drop, catching against his toes. He steps out with one foot, lifts them with the other to drop to the step below for Hannibal to gather when he reaches him.

“You bring such torment on yourself with this,” Hannibal sighs, taking up the underwear as well, standing a step below Will and smiling when the younger man bends to kiss him, hands clasping his face.

“Blissful torment?”

“Endless,” Hannibal amends, accepting another kiss. “On your back with your legs spread. I will taste you until you forget your voice in all but vowels.”

The promises are caught between opened mouths, pressed tightly together, in a tangle of tongues and teeth catching soft lips, reddening from the gentle nips and rough pressure of their kiss. Will rocks his hips forward against the air, seeking friction for the stiffening of his cock and finding none. He sighs in breathless exasperation against Hannibal’s cheek, teeth sinking lightly there as well, before he finally tears himself away.

Fingers brush Will’s lips before he turns with a little sound, smile lingering as he turns to pad down the hallway, towards the shower. Hannibal stands a moment more on the stairs, and when he’s certain he will not be heard, allows himself a long sigh to unfurl the blissful tension that Will pulls so tightly inside his chest.

The clothes are deposited in the wash basket, atop a plaid shirt already there. There are signs of Will everywhere, and yet disbelief still takes hold in Hannibal as to the entire confluence that has brought them to this point. It is only eased when Will is here, as now, when Hannibal can hear him humming low in the shower, can see the outline of his form as he works lather into his hair.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

All the sensations Hannibal never imagined he would associate with the investigator in his home, and for weeks now, unable to find others that fit.

Will takes his time, perhaps deliberately, perhaps merely out of want to warm himself after the damp, cold ride from Wolf Trap to Baltimore. Hannibal sheds his own clothes, and Will steps out of the bath to grasp for a towel, leaving the water running.

“Do you want it?”

Hannibal hums, kisses against Will’s temple before stepping into the already-warmed water to rinse himself quickly as well. He did not chill as much as Will, carrying the dogs back and forth and then fumbling with the lock to close up the house as the wind battered him. In all honesty, Hannibal hopes Will sleeps the night after this, out cold until late afternoon. He will take care of the dogs, he will let them into the garden and back in again, feed and water them and let them smear themselves around their claimed room.

Hannibal turns off the water and finds a towel for himself, working it over his skin and hair before making his way to the bedroom, finding Will in bed already, comfortably bare and working soreness from his muscles with languid stretches and soft sounds. 

They are deliberate, all, and Hannibal watches the show put on for him for long enough that blue eyes find his and narrow, and Hannibal can do little more than step closer and set the towel aside.

“We could be stuck here for days,” Will considers.

“With this storm, I would not be surprised,” Hannibal agrees. He rests his weight over Will and bends to kiss against his neck, hot presses and sucking the lower he sinks down Will’s skin, to his chest and stomach, skirting deliberately around his hard cock to spread Will’s legs and kiss his soft thighs instead.

“We’ll have to find ways to amuse ourselves.”

“We will.”

Will spreads his legs a little wider, fidgeting in ticklish pleasure at the lips touching so lightly over his legs. Hannibal stays there, just there, near enough to tease but not enough yet to reward. Up the length of Will’s body, he watches the younger man contort in demanding little shifts, hips rocking back and forth, stomach pulling taut enough for the muscles to define in ridges before relaxing soft again on a sigh, almost petulant.

“Thank you,” Will says, tucking an arm back beneath the pillow, and with the other, stroking damp strands from Hannibal’s face. “For taking all of us in. Mutts and strays,” he adds, smile pulling wider before he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes falling hooded.

“My home is always open to friends,” Hannibal replies, nuzzling against Will’s thigh, up to his stomach, and down the other, kissing lingering hot sucks there before tilting Will’s hips up and pressing his lips against his hole. Just a chaste kiss, but enough to pull Will’s voice from him, to pull a pleased hum and a laugh and Hannibal’s name from him.

So he spreads Will wider, tongues against him slowly, deliberate licks and sucks and kisses until Will’s fingers squeeze in his hair, tug against him. Hannibal moans, a low and possessive thing, and presses his tongue in to taste Will properly.

To him, Will is exceptional in every way, but in this, in his youthful and hungry demand, he is beautiful. He knows that were he able to look up he would see flushed cheeks and parted lips, he knows he would barely see blue in the slits of his eyes Will keeps open, or tries to. He knows that Will falls into the most blissful throes of pleasure when he is had this way, licked and sucked and tasted.

He could torment him this way for hours, contented with Will’s taste on his lips, with his breath panting and voice broken and body trembling for more.

Will slips a leg across Hannibal’s shoulder, hips off the bed enough that Hannibal can place his hands beneath to keep him elevated - enough that he can spread him wider still to drag his tongue slow, achingly slow, over Will’s flushed opening. The younger man groans deep in his belly and presses a hand to his face, muffling a laugh. Will rocks himself, or tries to, little thrusts that bounce his cock stiff against his stomach, but Hannibal takes his time even still, nuzzling against his heavy balls and parting his lips to surround the tight muscle that clenches so responsively.

“Never stop,” Will sighs, his breath trembling as much as the fingers in Hannibal’s hair, the thighs pressing and releasing against his cheeks. “Christ, Hannibal -”

Hannibal recalls, distantly, the first time he attempted this on Will. The shock and dismay, verging on anger, that Hannibal would suggest something so torrid, so _dirty_. He was reluctant to bend, then, to bare himself to sight that way, their joinings before always acts of violence - nails plunging into skin, teeth bared, fluids pale and scarlet and mixtures of both spilled in their wake. But Will had, with a frown, bent. He had offered, this, because Hannibal asked.

And he had moaned so beautifully that Hannibal cannot resist the urge to hear it - his favorite aria - again and again, since.

Will’s body gives way as Hannibal presses his tongue inside, an allowance for this and so much more. The ring of muscle still squeezes, snug, still tastes of soap from the shower, and the sound of another heated kiss that draws him between Hannibal’s lips jerks a louder sound from Will, nearly a cry, helpless and half-laughing. He tightens one hand in his own wet curls, the other against Hannibal’s scalp, nails scraping.

Hannibal presses closer, one hand up to curl around Will’s leg, careful over his ankle to hold him close, hold him down. Hannibal parts his lips and devours him, brings him such exquisite pleasure that Will can barely voice more than the little sounds he’s making. Just as Hannibal had promised.

Outside, the storm rages, pelting the windows and howling to get in. But the house is secure against it, keeping them and the dogs safe in the quiet cocoon of its ornate walls. Hannibal sets his other hand to Will’s thigh and holds him open there too, speeds up the thrusts with his tongue, the sucking kisses, the needy nudges against him as Will squirms and laughs, swears and tries to twist away.

Hannibal pulls back only to see Will laid pink and bare before him, chest rising and falling in deep panting breaths, one arm up to cover his eyes as his smile pulls wide, shows his teeth.

He is beautiful.

Hannibal sighs against wet skin, catches his own breath enough to bend further over the agent and take his cock in his mouth next, a long, slow suck before pulling off and doing it again. Coaxing both Will’s legs up over his shoulders now, Hannibal takes to pleasuring him this way, instead, shivering at the nails against his scalp, the moans pulled loud and long from Will above him.

Will arches, much as he can when he is so entirely in Hannibal’s careful control. His cock twitches, jerking against the hot stroke of Hannibal’s tongue along its length, but firm lips hold it in the older man’s mouth as he bobs his head again. Salty fluid drips slick against the back of his throat when he is so low, his nose is tickled by coarse, curly hair, and there Hannibal holds him, the head of Will’s cock hot even in the warm cavern of Hannibal’s mouth.

Heels dig sharp into his ribs, as if Will might drive deeper than he already is - as if by the insistence of his body alone, Hannibal might swallow him whole. He pushes against Will’s tense stomach, over smooth skin, and works a dark nipple between his fingers. As if he were an instrument, to be learned and studied over the lifetime Hannibal could spend listening to these sounds, Will’s voice pitches higher. Against his chin, Hannibal can feel the younger man’s balls drawing tighter each time Hannibal hollows his cheeks to suck.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” Will sighs, swallowing hard before his next breath breaks into a dissolute shudder.

Hannibal just hums in reply and keeps Will there, on that edge of utter bliss, utter relief, grasping against the pillows and digging his feet into Hannibal, demanding and helpless all at once. Hannibal gently twists the nipple between his fingers and feels Will shudder, throat clicking on a moan of need, low and almost animal in its intensity.

He wants just this. This trust they are building, this comfort of closeness and passion of intimacy. He is contented with the foreign clothes in his wash basket, he is contented with the toothbrush that has found its way to the glass in his bathroom. He is content. Slowly and surely accepting Will Graham into his life as Will is allowing him into his. Predator and prey too smart to live up to their predestined path.

Hannibal pulls back just to watch him, to lever himself further up Will’s body and kiss him, caught by sweat-sticky fingers against his cheek as Will hooks his legs over his middle instead and rocks up against him.

Nevermind the hour. Nevermind the storm. Nevermind that only hours before, between dinner and driving, they did just this, into dizzying release. Who was once predator or once the prey hardly matters when both satisfy the other’s hunger entirely. Hannibal sinks against Will’s kiss, beneath his arms, between his legs, into his body, that welcoming heat that holds him enraptured. He wants because he too is wanted, in shared spaces and open hearts.

The thunder joins their voices when they cry out low, and the rain ushers them to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wakes again only when he feels a weight on him, familiar and strong, and Hannibal hums his pleasure at allowing himself to stretch in bed again, half over Will as he kisses his shoulder and strokes it with a warm, dry palm._
> 
> _“The power’s out,” Hannibal murmurs._

Will wakes alone, and he wakes to darkness. Not the kind of darkness that suggests nighttime or terror, but a strange heavy grey like a sheet over one’s head in early-morning summer. 

He stretches, fingers and toes splaying before relaxing, and curls to his side, reaching for Hannibal and finding him, predictably, not there. He curls his hand down to grasp the sheet, and rolls onto it to bury his face in the man’s smell still lingering against his pillow. It’s strangely soothing, being here, being with him. Knowing the dogs are alright and unharmed and _welcome_ here, where Will had never thought they could be.

He knows he should get up, should go feed his animals, should take them outside if only for them to relieve themselves and not mess the house further than he is certain they already have. He should, and he will. In five minutes, when he properly wakes up and when the warmth Hannibal left in the sheets seeps properly into Will’s pores.

He wakes again only when he feels a weight on him, familiar and strong, and Hannibal hums his pleasure at allowing himself to stretch in bed again, half over Will as he kisses his shoulder and strokes it with a warm, dry palm.

“The power’s out,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will’s first response is merely a warning sound, rattling deep his throat. He buries himself further beneath Hannibal, wedged between the man and the mattress, forehead set against Hannibal’s lips and face half-tucked under his shoulder.

The second response is a curse, a sleep-thick _shit_ when Will realizes that not only have they undoubtedly slept through the alarm, but that the coffee maker has been rendered just as useless. He twists his arm, reaching behind himself to snare Hannibal’s hand, and he brings it to rest in his hair, settling further when Hannibal strokes through messy curls.

The third, and final reaction to this news, is a slow blink up at Hannibal, beneath whom he lies, lips parting.

“The garage.”

“Closed.”

“Can you -”

“No.”

Will’s brows knit, but it’s all an act, really, and doesn’t mask the speeding of his heart, quick as the rain still whipping against the windows. “Did you check the fuses?” He murmurs, and tucks his head beneath Hannibal’s chin. Closer, closer, always closer. More weight against him, more chest hair soft against his skin, more heat.

More Hannibal, who hums. “I did.”

“Do you want me to check just in case?” Will asks. It’s patronizing, he knows, there’s no way for it not to sound utterly fucking coddling but this is a man who doesn’t even get grease on the floor of his garage. Hell if Will can assume he knows how to reset a circuit breaker.

A hum that flows seamlessly into a growl and Hannibal arches up over Will before settling on him again.

“No.” And no more than that, no soft implications that the board is in the basement, no coddling in turn about how Will does not need to do it, because Hannibal has already done it - no anger, in turn, at that either.

For a moment longer, they just rest together before Hannibal turns to bury his nose in Will’s curls and sigh out against him, warm and spreading. Will smiles, adjusts a little and settles.

“There’s no coffee, is there?” Will asks, resigned, voice sombre at the thought, though he still smiles. Hannibal just breathes against him, turns his nose over and over the bared and smooth skin of his throat, over the tendon there, over his pulse in a possessive, strangely sweet nuzzling motion.

“There is,” he counters, kissing behind Will’s ear as he presses further over him. “One knows that brewed Turkish coffee will be a far more welcome aroma to wake up to than wet dog.”

“The dogs -”

“Have been released and returned,” Hannibal replies. “Wet. Dried as best as several soft towels allow, fed, and returned to their gilded cage.”

Will hides his face against the older man’s neck, if only to hide the pull he can feel tighten in the corners of his eyes, the lines etching a little deeper beside his nose and mouth. Hannibal rubs his back and settles, content, and it does nothing to ease the tension that Will feels so far inside himself he could choke.

It is a delay, and only that. A blessing and an agony to share a few more days together before Will has to return to Jack. A joy and horror that there is a little more time for them, in spite of all that Will knows the man has done, in spite of what has existed in this house before him, and will until it ends, one way or another -

“I’m glad,” Will says softly. “I’m glad there’s coffee. And thank you for taking them, you - you didn’t have to do that -”

Just another nuzzle in answer, the displeasure at the lack of cleanness, the overabundance of fur and bodies and sounds and smells and _mess_ , clear but not overwhelming. A feeling Hannibal woke up to and immediately shelved in a compartment of his mind he didn’t wish to open again, and didn’t mean to.

“Come have coffee,” he whispers, kissing against Will’s cheek and peeling himself from him to kneel at the end of the bed, watching Will as he turns, still bare in bed, beneath the sheets to stretch again, full-bodied and fulfilling.

He lays on his stomach a moment more, quieting his heart with deep, slow breaths. The pillow beneath him smells like Hannibal, warm and familiar, and settles him far more than the breathing. Will stifles the faint frown that threatens to appear, and grudgingly pushes himself from the bed, cursing beneath his breath at the pull of muscle that runs from ass to spine.

“I need to call -” Will stops, and shakes his head, as if it’s only sleep that’s addled him. “I need to check in with work - let them know -”

“After,” Hannibal tells him, demuring his own smile as Will glances at him. “It’s not as late as you think. They’ll not expect you in for another hour.”

“Did I sleep?”

“You slept,” Hannibal replies. “Deep enough that the thunder which shook the windows and woke your pack did not wake you.”

Will presses a hand to his face in something like humiliation but finds himself smiling. Beyond the curtains, there is little light, meaning the sky is dark enough, in the early morning, that it will hardly grow lighter as the day progresses.

And in weather like this, and with Jack assuming he is still in Wolf Trap - where the roads, Will is certain, are closed, now - Will is certain he will not be expected in the office. Perhaps for several days. The thought should not warm him as it does, should not pull forth the feeling he would get as a child, knowing there was a snow day for school but still waiting, in that thrumming anticipation, for the call to confirm that.

“Did you sleep?” He asks instead, and Hannibal turns his head, just once, reptilian and somehow utterly beautiful in that.

“I sleep better when you’re near me,” he replies, moving to stand from the bed and wait for Will to join him, bare or clothed, it hardly matters.

Will watches him a moment more, before he turns away with a slight smile, hidden beneath his hand. He draws a breath. Releases it. He seeks out sleep pants from the drawer near the bed, and slips them on as though they were his own, and not a little too narrow in the thighs and a few inches too long in the hems.

He can pretend, for a few more days.

He can lose himself in this, for a few more days.

A few more days, and then -

Will rubs a hand across his eyes to grind the sleep from their corners, and pads shivering to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, as if there were nothing at all strange about the pair of them, the time and the place and the context, sharing a home. Sharing a sink. Sharing a bed nightly since they began.

Sharing each other, bared far more than just in body.

A few more days.

He can lose himself.

Will does.

“This is what you get for having electric stoves,” he points out, around his toothbrush and a faceful of foam. “If you used gas, it’d be fine. But I think there’s leftover cereal, from last time -”

“Do not.” The reply is short and terse and makes Will snort before he spits and scoops water into his mouth to rinse.

“Well it is either that or starve, Hannibal,” Will points out, toweling his face dry before leaving the bathroom again. He raises an eyebrow at the man who watches him impassively as Will passes him through to the corridor and downstairs. Hannibal follows at a slower pace, knowing his house by heart, watching Will, almost endeared, as he seeks the walls and bannister for balance and support.

Downstairs there are candles lit, in high holders, settled into large glass bowls, and on saucers.

All amidst tall presentations of eggs benedicts, steaming in the wan light.

“I would recommend the eggs,” Hannibal tells him, following behind Will and holding a chair out for him. “The milk may have soured depending on how long the power has been out. Everything else, I made fresh this morning. On the gas stove.”

Will’s brow lifts, his smile dims, not in lacking enthusiasm but made shy by the words and his own constant sense of embarrassment when it comes to Hannibal. Of course he doesn't use an electric stove, the traditionalist.

"So no cereal then," Will manages.

He can feel the man bristle - just a little shift in the air, like static - without looking towards him, even as Hannibal replies, with eminent patience, “It is there, if you’d like it. Perhaps I might fetch the bone china from which to eat.”

“You might,” Will acknowledges, both brows raised now. Hannibal gives him a vaguely dire look, and Will cracks. He grins.

He loses himself a little more.

Where Hannibal stands at the stove again to prepare coffee, Will follows him. He wraps his arms around the man’s soft middle, overlaying a core of strength that makes Will shiver to recall, and gently, Will rests his cheek against Hannibal’s back.

“I’ll try yours,” he allows, listening to the resonant hum of disapproval. “And if it’s not superior to Cocoa Puffs, I’ll switch.” 

"Much obliged," Hannibal replies, but there is a great deal more warmth in his tone than his expression suggests. He leans a little into Will and then gently sets a hand to his hip, coaxing him to his breakfast.

When he does not go, Hannibal just squeezes his fingers lightly against soft skin and keeps them there are he watches the coffee brew on the little pot on the stove.

Outside, the storm rages on, battering the trees in Hannibal’s garden mercilessly. Will does not want to imagine what it would have been like at Wolf Trap now - he envisions horrors of half the house torn to pieces, the rest drenched and smeared in the fields beyond. He wonders how he would have felt, had Hannibal gone at his request the night before. The house would be standing, but he would not have slept, nor would the dogs. And with no power there, he would have had no communication at all, with anyone, for days.

Hannibal lifts the little pot to let the foam settle before replacing it to the stove.

"Maggie is not a fan of storms," Hannibal comments quietly, his smile back, in words and expression.

Will nuzzles between his shoulder blades, sighing warmth against the man’s bare skin before resting his cheek there. He tilts his head back and forth a little, just enough to feel the heat pervade through his scruffy beard.

“No,” Will agrees, and he glances from the corner of his eyes towards the spare bedroom with a pang of guilt. “Was she… unwell?”

“Merely on alert. She slept more poorly than the rest of us, it seems.”

“Poor thing,” sighs Will. “Buster wants to fight them. He thinks he can scare the wind away by barking at it.”

“I imagine he could, given the volume of his voice.”

Will’s smile widens and he hides it there, behind Hannibal’s back, for a moment more before reluctantly drawing away to accept his coffee and return to the table. He sets a foot against his chair when he sits, toes curling over the edge, and no sooner does Hannibal settle beside him then Will slips his other foot into the man’s lap, watching him above his mug. He’s forgotten his glasses, he realizes, in their hurry to beat the inbound storm. It doesn’t matter, really, but he feels more bare without them than he does over the fact he’s only in sleep pants.

_A shield_ , Alana told him once. _A way to protect yourself from invasive gazes._

But when Hannibal briefly meets his eyes, it is only with tenderness, perhaps amusement, just there, in the wrinkles that form in the corners. Will sips his coffee, and shivers at the contrast between heat against his lips, and the cold of everything else around them.

He eats slowly, as ever, picking apart little pieces of the meal to sample, bit by bit. Poached eggs remain a mystery that Will is happy to let remain as such, and the rest -

“Salmon?” He asks, brows furrowing as he tugs at the flaky, red meat with his fork.

Hannibal hums, careful to have salmon and egg and spinach on his fork together before spearing a piece of the oven-crisped toast.

"It brings out the richness of the eggs, the bitterness of the spinach." Hannibal glances at Will, amused because Will is watching him as one would a much-loved relative who tells the same stories every vacation. Fond. Gentled. Something almost relieved, perhaps, and Hannibal is glad he went with the salmon and did not try to defrost the meat in his freezer.

"Is it to your culinary standards?" Hannibal asks, amused, watching Will eat as he always does, but by bit, part by part. Dissecting even here, fascinated with every element. "Or will you seek out cereal?"

Will smiles, abashed, and ducks his head. Hannibal is right, of course - the density of fish adds substance to the delicate egg, its smokiness bringing out the sweetness underlying such young curls of spinach. Will spears a leaf of the latter and motions towards the wall of herbs and cutting greens beside them, brows lifting.

"Just before I came to fetch you," Hannibal agrees. His eyes narrow in pleasure - that Will is satisfied, that Will noticed.

"It's excellent. You've outdone yourself, doctor," Will says.

"I would be ashamed if I were not able to perform better than - ah - Cocoa Puffs. Or the captain."

"The captain?" Will asks softly, before a laugh catches him off-guard. He quiets it behind his hand, cheeks ruddy. "Captain Crunch."

"What he has achieved in seamanship, he has not managed in his cuisine."

Will watches the man beside him in quiet wonder, smile lingering so long it aches. He curls his toes a little more insistently against the man's thigh, seeking promisingly, threateningly inward.

"Maybe Maggie can come in today. If you're okay with it, I mean. She does prefer your company. Maybe it'll help calm her down a bit. And the rest -" Will adds, toes spreading against the join of Hannibal's thigh, while the younger man's expression remains entirely mild.

Hannibal makes a sound and spreads his legs a little to accommodate for Will’s persistent kneading. Will had known that Hannibal suspected such a request, had known, himself, that he would ask it. He watches now, as Hannibal deliberately finishes his breakfast, taking his time to answer.

"They should be sufficiently dry, now, to safely explore the house."

There is a warmth in that allowance, a fondness for the creatures Hannibal would have spent time scrubbing dry, not only to make sure his home remained relatively free of mess, but because they would have been cold, uncomfortable, most likely nuzzling and nudging him, seeking comfort and warmth. And he gave it.

Hannibal watches Will linger over his breakfast but does not chastise him to eat faster. Will is going to, at his own pace. He always does.

Hannibal finishes first, and drops a hand to curl warm over Will’s ankle, a reassuring squeeze before he lowers Will’s feet to the floor and stands, taking his plate to the sink to wash it.

"The door is not locked," Hannibal comments, smiling briefly over his shoulder at Will, an open invitation to collect his pack when he wishes.

Will watches him, the brief smile and the movement of his back. The height and breadth of him, making beauty out of even the mundane. He wonders, as he has countless times already and as he will countless times more, what he’s done to deserve this.

Will sucks the taste of coffee from his bottom lip and finishes his plate with a couple quick forkfuls, bringing it to Hannibal at the sink and grazing a kiss against his shoulder. Just that, a touch, a flicker of affection simply because he can, and Will heads back to the guestroom, announcing his arrival to the dogs in an eager voice. He grins as he’s greeted by whines and the sound of claws clicking against the floor in anticipation, and with a careful hand, opens the door to the flood of fur that surrounds him.

He lets it take him, dropping to sit cross-legged right in the hall, accepting thwacks of swinging tails, eager tongues and wet noses shoved against his cheeks. Each dog is greeted in turn - he asks how they are, how they slept, how their morning was with Hannibal taking such good care of them. He calls them spoiled but he doesn’t mean it, and lets the littlest, Zoe with her underbite and cheerful wriggling, sit in his lap.

"Be good," Will tells them. He smiles when the most eager immediately leave to explore, having been assured of Will’s presence and safety. Winston stays to licks over Will's neck, Zoe and Buster to press little paws to his chest, tails wagging so hard their back halves go with them.

Maggie whines and sits heavily in the corridor, still nervous and wary of the wind howling outside and the pelting rain. The pressure in the air and the new smells the storm always brings.

"My good girl," Will tells her, reaching to scratch behind her ears, to clasp her muzzle in his hands and gently shake it. "You know where he is," he tells her. “Go find him."

Maggie stands and goes, tail between her legs, still, and ears pressed warily down. She goes to the kitchen and Will listens to the soft greeting from the man within, foreign language lyrical and warm. Will slowly stands, careful to lower Zoe to the floor before padding his way to the kitchen as well. Within, Hannibal continues with dishes, but now with Maggie resting her heavy head against him in a deliberate comfort-seeking lean.

For a moment more, he lets them be. He memorizes, deep inside, the lilting purr of Hannibal’s voice in his native tongue. He remembers - and will, he thinks, forever - how this prim and proper man dries his hand before gently setting it to Maggie’s head. She looks up at him, dark eyes wide, and slips lower into her lean, until she’s half-laying atop his feet.

“I’d say you won her over, but I think that happened a while ago,” Will muses. He enters into the kitchen, gaze darting over the dogs that come and go, exploring, some chasing each other down a hallway, some investigating the table for any lingering bits of breakfast to nibble. He takes up his mug again before it can be washed, and refills it.

Calm.

Content.

Happy.

He washes down the lump in his throat with a sip of coffee, before slipping up onto the counter to sit, bare feet dangling. “Did you have dogs, ever?”

"Never in such quantities," Hannibal replies, a smile tilting his lips and narrowing his eyes. Then his expression clears and he considers properly. "My father had hunting dogs, I think. They did not come inside often, and we did not go hunting together."

There is a heaviness in the words that Hannibal swallows away, offers a smile to Will again. Dishes done and breakfast had, the house a strange light twilight due to the lack of electricity for proper lighting, and the dogs, having smelled every corner and piece of furniture they missed the night before, now settle like shadows all over the house.

Hannibal opens his mouth to say more before he turns his head, just a little, seeking a sound Will can’t seem to hear, before dark eyes slip to Will’s with a wry expression.

"I believe your cellphone is ringing."

Will blinks at him. “In the - in the bedroom?” He parts his lips with his tongue, brows knitting, then raising, as he slips from the counter with a laugh of disbelief. “From _here_?”

“It is a memorable ring,” Hannibal says, fighting down his own smile as Will curses mildly and takes the stairs two at a time.

He misses the call, of course. Jack, of course. A terse sigh snares him out of his own cognitive dissonance, out of the domesticity and quiet comfort, out of the soft pressure that welled in his chest watching Hannibal with Maggie. It’s gone in an instant, and he is once again nothing more than a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

The phone buzzes in his hand.

“Jack, hey. Yeah, nasty right? Lost power so - uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, no idea when they’ll get it up again. No, we’re fine.” He bites his lip and closes his eyes, wrapping an arm around his middle, doubled over on the edge of the bed. “Me and the dogs. No, no need, not sure you could get out here anyway - roads are flooded, trees and - y’know.”

He tries to uncurl himself, stretching back, but it’s painful. His body feels bruised, suddenly, cold, and so he sets his arm against his legs again, fingers pushing painfully into his ribs.

“Hopefully in a day or two? Never know how long it’ll take them. I mean, I called but - yeah, never in a hurry. Government work, right? I’m kid- Jack, I’m kidding. You okay?”

He listens, but hears little beyond the hum filling his ears, from his own tension thrumming tight more than the phone. Eyes closed, he nods, humming assent when he should.

“Soon as I can. I’m gonna go though, before the phone dies. I’ll try to keep it off as - as much as I can, to save the battery, but I’ll check in - yeah. Yeah, voicemail. Okay. Couple days, maybe - maybe less. Glad you’re fine. Thanks.”

The storm sounds louder, somehow. Or perhaps it is just the ringing in Will’s ears, the reminder, never gentle, of why he's here, of what and whom he is infiltrating. He does not want to remember. He has forced himself to forget and found the ignorance much better, for his mind, for his body.

He feels good.

Had felt good.

He tosses the phone to the bed and draws a hand through his hair with a quiet curse. A few more days. A couple days. That time to have as he chooses, do what he pleases. He hopes, for a brief, childish moment, that the storm is biblical. 

Downstairs, he finds Hannibal in the kitchen still - the only lit room in the house, with the candles - and Maggie at his side as he leans against the counter and looks down at her. One hand strokes over the silky muzzle and down the soft fur on the ridge of her nose as he talks to her, asks questions and soothes her with words and hands.

The dog is almost swaying she's so tired.

Will knows the feeling all too well.

Just as much as he knows that Hannibal’s touch can ease it away, the hand he seeks out to press against his cheek and sigh warmth into, if only to feel that his body can still produce it. Hannibal’s fingers curl against Will’s cheek as the younger man leans to the counter beside him, forehead to his shoulder.

It’s easier that way to hide how he has to force his smile.

“Bought myself a day or two,” he murmurs, shivering when Hannibal’s fingers work back into his hair, grasping the short curls at his neck. “With you.”

A hum, soft, and Hannibal stretches his shoulders back. At the release of tension, he hugs Will closer, kisses the side of his face warmly and rests against him.

"Let us make the most of it, then,” he sighs, eyes up and meeting Will’s briefly, before they narrow further as he smiles with them alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It is a world apart from what they speak of now, in nostalgic admissions of distant confusion, pervasive guilt. It is unfathomable for Will to consider that he ever loathed the man, though he knows he did - intensely. The cruelty of their barbs were guised as pensive words, each seeking weaknesses in the other’s armor, unaware that they would find those soft stretches of skin only after they had wounded and made each other whole again. With words, still, but more with touches and actions, reassurances pouring endless from one to the other over the scant span of weeks together._

They eat.

Plentiful amounts of food, fresh vegetables and cheeses, things that might go to spoil in the days the power is out. Some of it is cooked, together as often as not, and some is merely shared from fingertips to lips, in front of the darkened refrigerator. Will takes it upon himself to drink the beer, despite the gentle insistence that it will not go bad outside the cold. The dogs share in the feast, with meals created from healthy scraps that they eat with relish, pushing expensive bowls around the floor.

They sleep.

The dogs each find their own place in the house. Some stay beside the fires that Hannibal lights in the bedroom and living room to bring warmth, others scatter to cushions or beds. Maggie stays resolutely by Hannibal’s side. Buster sleeps on the stairs. The two men twine together wherever rest finds them - on the couch, surrounded in quiet darkness, in bed with sweat cooling on their bare skin. Will’s phone dies on the second day, and he doesn’t mourn it.

They share.

Space and food. Comfort and tenderness. When there is light enough, they sit together and read, until their eyes grow weary. When night falls and there is no more light than the flames of fireplaces and candles provide, they talk, about nothing in particular.

A workman stopped by earlier in the day, assuring them that power would be restored by the next morning, and though Hannibal smiled and thanked him, Will - listening from the other room - could not bring himself to do the same. Instead, he caught Hannibal’s hand as he returned inside, and brought him to the couch.

Will stretches long beneath the man, socked toes curling in feline pleasure before he twines his legs between Hannibal’s own. They are dressed only in undershirts and sleep pants, no reason to put on more when the clothes have been shed so easily in the two days before. Beneath the hem of Hannibal’s shirt, Will slides his hand across the older man’s furred belly, fingernails scratching, and their kiss is broken with a whimper as Will rocks his hips upward against him.

He does not need Hannibal inside him now - he’s there all the time anyway. The smooth joining of their lips together is enough, languid kissing and explorations of their hands enough to sate them and inspire wonder all the same. Will kisses the coarse bristles across Hannibal’s cheek, both unshaven while they’ve been there, and turns his head aside to coax Hannibal to his throat instead, fingers tangling in lank strands of ashen blonde.

“You know I’ve never,” Will murmurs. “With a man, before. Never even thought about it.”

Hannibal just hums. He knows. He knew. And it had still been Will who had come to him first, proud and unbroken and demanding to be. He thinks of the cigarette ash on his shoe, of the way Will had come to him again, even after their initial joining that had been more like a battle than an expression of adoration.

He thinks of Will in his basement, sawing through limbs and shaking in his arms, shocked to feel warm skin against him again. He thinks of Will pressing him to the stairs, desperate and trembling with suppressed need and the fear of it. He thinks of the first time he had made him moan.

“You approached me,” Hannibal points out gently, and there is no accusation there, no mockery, merely a question phrased as a genial statement.

Will hums his doubt, playful, a little drunk from the beer and whiskey that followed, despite the latter never having even seen the inside of a refrigerator. He twists his fingers a little in Hannibal’s hair, just enough to hold them taut, shifting in silent encouragement for Hannibal to kiss his neck. He does not, yet, and Will grins.

“Physically,” he agrees. “Only physically. And only after I was -”

Hannibal’s brow lifts, and Will doesn’t even need to see it to know, draping an arm across his eyes.

“I was pursued first,” Will contends, peeking towards Hannibal. “You wanted it before I did. And you didn’t even have to move from your chair for me to know.”

“Did I?” Hannibal’s tone pulls another laugh from Will and he lowers his arm over his eyes again, pleased. There is a warmth between them, here, of lost inhibitions and trust and pleasure. Several days of just _togetherness_ that would seem unnecessary or overcompensating at any other time, has brought them to a place neither wishes to leave, though neither would outwardly suggest so.

Hannibal rests more of his weight on Will and draws a hand over his cheek in a warm caress.

“You initially found me interesting,” Will reminds him.

“I found your stubbornness interesting.”

“And my wit.”

“Your sarcasm.”

“My mind,” Will laughs, and Hannibal doesn’t argue that, so he kisses him.

Will leans into the kiss. Their lips meet and spread, draw together again only to part, sliding smooth together. Wider, then, to allow tongues to softly touch, tracing teeth, twining. They bump noses, push tighter together, nuzzling the other’s cheek and exhaling rough sighs that whisper loud. Hannibal twists a curl of hair around his finger. Will thumbs over his doctor’s temple before smoothing his hair back from his face again, each staying close enough to brush noses more gently when they part, lips flushed and swollen.

It’s been hours like this, quiet conversation silenced only by their mutual need to kiss, only to kiss.

“How disappointing then,” Will murmurs, “when my stubbornness was the first to break.”

“Thrilling,” Hannibal corrects, and another brush of lips validates his answer. Will lays back, head against the arm of the couch, and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth to taste Hannibal there.

“If you hadn’t - you know - drawn me in, I wouldn’t have come on my own. It made sense - to meet the physical on its own plane, and join it with what was already happening here,” he says, motioning vaguely beside his head. “I thought it might -”

Hannibal lifts a brow but doesn’t interject, allowing Will a moment of drawn brows as he sifts through the words.

“Elevate the challenge,” he finally says, before a whiskey-rough laugh catches on a sigh. “I didn’t expect it to happen like that. I - I don’t think I ever expected to come home from therapy, and spend the night with my fingers between my legs.” A pause, dire amusement. “I had to throw those pants away. Hopeless.”

A click of the tongue and Hannibal’s expression remains seemingly unaffected, he appears seemingly unaffected. He considers Will against him, now, pliant with alcohol and pleasure, soft against him and warm. The man Hannibal has now countless times taken to the edge of pleasure and caught him as he fell over it. The man Hannibal had brought to sobbing not two hours before by spreading him open and tonguing him again.

“I cannot honestly tell you if that behaviour should be condoned or concerning,” Hannibal says, but his voice breaks on a laugh halfway through and he meets Will’s grin with his own, foreheads together and breath mingling with breath.

“You are no longer my therapist.”

“No.”

“So perhaps condoned?”

“Encouraged.”

“Perpetuated,” Will grins, and Hannibal hums and rests against him, delighted at how easily Will has gone to lax tipsiness from the beer and whiskey and freedom of their accidental storm captivity.

Will adjusts, rocking his shoulders closer to the arm of the couch to prop his head up higher. He watches as Hannibal slips lower, just a little, to rest his cheek against Will’s chest, hand splaying against the other side. Working his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, Will strokes gently, as pleased by this as he was by kissing like teenagers as he was by being spread and licked and fucked until he wept laughing.

“I was amazed,” he says, smile widening into a grin. “Horrified, really, at first. Of course that’s how the human body works, to allow that, but - it was _mine_. I stripped bare as soon as I got home. Threw the pants away. Limped to the bathroom and just looked, at all the bites and bruises. Blood still staining my lips. More between my legs, dried flaking on my thighs. My - you know - was stuck to my skin, where that mess dried too. I barely recognized myself. There were flecks on my glasses.”

He draws a breath that catches short, and then sighs, long, watching Hannibal shift atop him when he does.

“It was in the shower that I finally started to - to touch. To feel and,” he laughs, low. “I was so angry at myself. Even more when I got hard again.”

Hannibal closes his eyes. He thinks of how when Will had left his office, he had gone home himself, hands and body aching for Will again, smelling of him. That beautiful, stubborn man pressed so close against him with phantom nails and parted lips, with ghosts of sighs and sounds and pleasure.

“I relished every moment of you against me,” Hannibal admits, voice a low purr against Will’s chest as long fingers continue to card through his hair. “Played them through, over and over. Every sound you made, every twitch of pain you refused to stop,” Hannibal hums, amused, and Will can feel him smile. “Stubborn,” he adds.

They rest together, now, reliving something that feels so far away, years and decades ago, when it had happened merely a month before. So much had happened since.

“I touched,” he admits, to Will’s snort of amusement. “I found myself unwilling to get up the next morning, having spent so much of my night awake.”

“Both of us, then,” Will smiles. “It’s better like this.”

Will tugs just enough to tilt Hannibal’s head, seeking out his gaze for an instant before they lean to meet each other in another kiss. The doctor’s hands frame his face as he draws himself higher along Will’s body, thumbs stroke beneath his eyes over the smooth skin there, made warm by his own shyness and the whiskey that makes him brave despite.

It is a world apart from what they speak of now, in nostalgic admissions of distant confusion, pervasive guilt. It is unfathomable for Will to consider that he ever loathed the man, though he knows he did - intensely. The cruelty of their barbs were guised as pensive words, each seeking weaknesses in the other’s armor, unaware that they would find those soft stretches of skin only after they had wounded and made each other whole again. With words, still, but more with touches and actions, reassurances pouring endless from one to the other over the scant span of weeks together.

 _I don’t want to hurt you_ in every brush of fingertips.

 _You see me_ in every long look shared.

 _I trust you_ in every kiss.

Will shifts, ducking from Hannibal’s lips to run his mouth warmly over the man’s pulse instead.

For a while more, they lie together in silence. Contented just with the closeness, with the rain still hammering on the roof above them, the occasional snuffle of a dog nearby before it shifts and settles and goes quiet again.

Hannibal knows he had fallen asleep only because he is woken, Will’s voice gentle with his name and fingers soft in his hair, a slight tug to move him but little more. The sound of the house has changed a little, not in a threatening way, but Hannibal can sense it, that strange innate knowledge of one’s own surroundings and one’s own home especially.

The fire still burns, lower, now, in the grate before them, and beyond, over Will’s head, he can see the light on in the kitchen.

The power’s come back.

Hannibal rubs a hand over his eyes and pushes himself to rest on his arms over Will who watches him sheepishly before arching up in a stretch.

“Did I sleep long?” Hannibal asks.

“Longer than I did.”

Will watches the pull of muscles in Hannibal’s arms, forearms stretched tight, biceps trembling from the blissful strain of it. Up to his shoulders, his neck where tendons flex, until he tilts his head from side to side and lacking room to move elsewhere, stretches a leg to sit astride Will’s hips. He presses his hands against Will’s stomach, fingers curling, his eyes hooded in drowsy pleasure.

“Are you hungry?”

The younger man shakes his head after a moment of conversation, teeth set against his bottom lip. He stretches up into the hands that knead softly over his belly, and drapes his arms over the arm of the couch.

“What time is it?”

“Night,” Will shrugs, glancing over his shoulder towards the windows. Quiet now, the storm having passed. Lit by the golden glow outside the house, casting strange shadows over the garden. “There’s time, still -”

“- for dinner,” Hannibal finishes, moving to stand from where they had pressed so close for most of the day, entirely contented to do so. “And for breakfast, tomorrow morning, before I return you and your pack to Wolf Trap.”

There is a hope, there, a lingering and strange softness before Hannibal swallows, holds out his hand for Will to take, to pull him from the couch as well.

“But work -”

“- can wait.”

“And Jack?”

Hannibal’s smile warms his face almost enough to cover the cool displeasure there.

“Can wait,” he replies.

“Persistent,” Will notes, rolling to his side and watching Hannibal’s hand.

“Encouraging.”

He takes Hannibal’s dextrous fingers in his own and lets himself be tugged to stand, hiding a sleepy grin behind his other hand. “Perpetuating,” he murmurs.

Hannibal pulls him closer and Will goes, yielding all too willingly to Hannibal’s strength. He slips his arms around the man’s neck and nuzzles against his cheek, scattering kisses until Hannibal hums in amused warning.

There is time still. For dinner and for the dogs to enjoy the space into which they’ve settled as readily as their pack leader. For affection to warm them and desire to stoke their bodies hotter still. For Will to pretend, just a few hours more, that he is here, entirely and only here, and that tomorrow he won’t find himself tugged apart by others’ needs catching like fishhooks beneath his skin.

“Dinner,” Hannibal reminds him softly, and Will nods agreement.

There is time still, for now.


End file.
